


The Virginals

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Mary I of England: Truth, the daughter of time [10]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Music, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:31:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: Spring 1534."It was the rhythm in her pulsing blood, the cadences of her soul, the tempo reverberating in her muscles and sinews, all the way right down to her verybones."Mary encounters a set of virginals tucked away in a room at Hatfield.





	The Virginals

**Author's Note:**

> The virginals was a popular instrument during the Tudor era and a forerunner of the modern piano.

**Spring 1534**

She never would have caught sight of the virginals if she hadn’t taken the most circuitous route possible back to her rooms after completing her nighttime chores. Her desire to avoid the other maids of Elizabeth’s household had led her past a suite of rooms she had never gone by, and it had been quite by accident she had spied the instrument.

It was a beautiful model, made of fine cherry wood and decorated with a repeating design of red and gold rose. A fine layer of dust covered its surface, disturbed only when Mary brushed her fingers over the glossy keys, her feet having carried her into the room without realizing it. Clearly it had not been played in a long time, if it had ever been played at all.

The disinherited Tudor girl glanced about the room, which appeared to be a storage room. It was crammed with all manner of fancy objects: tapestries, plates, jewels, furniture, statues, astrolabes, and more. These must be the gifts given at Elizabeth’s christening, it dawned on Mary as her eyes alighted upon three engraved silver-gilt bowls. She remembered hearing word of how Gertrude Courtenay, Marchioness of Exeter, wife to one of her father’s first cousins, had been compelled to send these gifts, as well as stand godmother at the baptism. They had gone to such lengths to punish Lady Exeter for her support of Queen Katherine and her refusal to attend Anne’s coronation, and what did they do with the surplus gifts they received? Consigned them to rot in a storage room. Mary smirked at this sign of Anne’s pointless vanity.

She returned her attention to the virginals, which had clearly been another ill-thought out gift. It would be several years before Elizabeth was old enough to play the virginals, yet practicality had not been the gift-giver's goal in mind, but rather currying favor. The virginals had served its purpose, to convince the king and false queen of their loyalty, and then stuffed away in a cramped room. It was a quality instrument, yet it would remain here, forgotten and neglected.

Mary felt something deep within her twinge, something raw and aching. It had been months since she last played a set of virginals; since she came to Hatfield, there had been no question of the king’s _bastard_ being allowed any of the luxuries traditionally granted to royal children, and that included musical instruments. Her lute and virginals had been left behind at Ludlow when the Duke of Norfolk summarily dragged her from there, as there had been no time to pack anything but the bare necessities. They must still be there, unless Anne had decided to be extraordinarily petty and wanted the very instruments once used by the previous heir to the throne to be confiscated and set aside for her own daughter. She had demanded that Katherine hand over Mary’s old christening gown for Elizabeth to wear, after all; Anne’s capacity for spite knew no bounds.

Mary skimmed her fingers over the ivory keys again, their smooth, cool texture stirring up a surge of memories. Her father’s fingers dancing across the keyboard, her own tiny fingers rushing to mimic his as best she could. Tinkling notes and chords, at first clumsy and detached, then smoother and faster until they blended together into melodies that could render an entire court spellbound. Entire afternoons spent on the bench, practicing the same songs and shaping them underneath her fingertips until they came to life.

Her musical talents had impressed everyone who met her, from visiting French ambassadors to her tutors to the other children who accompanied her, but none more so than her father. He himself was an accomplished virtuoso, and he had been delighted to know that the daughter he had sired was just as gifted as he was, that she had inherited the Tudor flair for the arts… at least until he started a new family and sired a new child, one who would now receive the love and praise that had once been Mary’s.

The thought brought a sudden welling of tears to Mary’s eyes, and in a fit of pique, she slammed a fist down on the keyboard. A cacophony of notes erupted, leaving Mary’s nerves jangling. She waited for footsteps to come pounding to where she stood, for fingers to dig into her shoulders and turn her around and caustic tongues to demand why she was besmirching the Princess of Wales’ belongings with her bastard presence.

But no one came. The silence went on, as uninterrupted as it had been before. After months of being at the beck and call of Elizabeth’s governess and harried to complete task after grueling task, she was alone, wonderfully alone. A wild grin unfurled across her face in the darkness, a strange giddiness enveloping her in her newfound solitude.

Before she knew it, she was seated at the keyboard, her fingers flying across the keys. What piece she intended to play, she had no clear aim in mind. Every day you don’t practice is a day you get worse, a music tutor had once remonstrated her. How her old music master would have fainted to learn that she had gone months without practicing! He had been right, Mary thought. Her hands were stiff and unsteady after such a long interval, reproducing whatever half-remembered fragments melodies and tunes emerged from her murky memories.

Mary was not a Tudor for nothing, however, and soon her playing had gained traction, picking up speed until soon she was playing as confidently as she had when she was still Princess of Wales. Her heart fluttered in exhilaration; to be making music, after weeks of living the life of a drudge, was like embracing an old friend. She remembered it clearly now: that sensation of pushing away the fog and tangled emotions in her brain, of reaching that single-minded concentration upon the piece like only an accomplished of musician could.

But it was not enough; she remembered how she used to be able to fly on the wings of her music, to soar higher and higher until she had reached a place high above the firmament, where it was just her and her fingers and the music. She remembered those days spent lost in music and melody, an unparalleled level of bliss she had not known since.

Mary soldiered on, tapping out every recalled rhythm, scale, and composition, until her execution was flawless and her technique impeccable, her hands as deft and precise as they were in happier times. But music was more than just the notes on the page. It was the rhythm in her pulsing blood, the cadences of her soul, the tempo reverberating in her muscles and sinews, all the way right down to her very _bones_. Reaching that high, eternal place built on elegance and finesse demanded everything in Mary, and she dedicated herself wholeheartedly to the song, a welcome reprieve from toil and labor.

Eventually there came a point where Mary was no longer aware of anything at all beyond the cool ivory beneath her skin and the strains filling her ears, a threshold she crossed without even realizing it. She could have stayed that way forever, gliding by on the crest of her music.

But eventually she did descend from her celestial mantle; not as Satan fell from Heaven, but as an angel sent to Earth by God might do so. She played the closing notes of her piece with a flourish, the closing refrain humming in the air long after it had stopped echoing. The household slumbered on around her, unaware that a young girl’s flagging spirits had been revitalized.

She had been afraid that her time as a servant would eventually rob her of her skills as a princess. That in assuming the guise of a servant, she would _become_ one, as ludicrous as the thought was. But her enemies had not won; despite everything, she had proved tonight that she still possessed the dignity and poise of a princess, and in time, the world would know it as well. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mary was indeed a gifted musician, and at four years old, entertained some French visitors to the court by playing on the virginals.
> 
> Gertrude Courtenay, wife to one of the main Yorkist claimants and an outspoken supporter of Katherine of Aragon, was indeed forced to stand as one of Elizabeth’s godmothers and send three silver-gilt bowls as a gift. Anne also did ask that the christening gown Mary had worn be used for Elizabeth, but ended up sewing a new gown for her daughter.
> 
> If anyone has any ideas or requests for any moments from Mary's life, seeing her interact with other Tudor figures, AU Mary-centric ideas, or even an entirely Mary-unrelated idea, leave me a comment!


End file.
